


Traditions

by Strigimorphaes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Festivals, GatesOfSummer2015, M/M, Nostalgia, Romantic Fluff, Teenage elves, Tirion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:46:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigimorphaes/pseuds/Strigimorphaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In exile, Maedhros attempts to rekindle a holiday while recalling how it used to be back in Tirion.<br/>Fingon is there too, proving that the more things change, the more some things stay the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution for the #GatesOfSummer2015. I posted it to tumblr ages ago, but it took me a month to get in on AO3. It's a bit more edited now, though. I’ve let the feanorians use each other’s Quenya mothernames & nicknames, but I hope it’s not too confusing.  
> "Tarnin Austa (meaning "Gates of Summer") was held on the first day of summer. It was custom to begin a solemn ceremony at midnight, continuing it until dawn of Tarnin Austa. No-one could speak from midnight to daybreak, but upon the rising of the Sun they would burst into ancient songs, with choirs standing upon the eastern wall. At that time the city was filled with silver lamps, and lights of jeweled colors hung on the branches of the new-leaved trees"

The harsh lands surrounding Himring were not an ideal place to find flowers. As the summer solstice came around, Maedhros had lanterns and candles and tables, food and room for many men, but wine and flowers – those, he lacked. 

Salvation came in the form of brothers who had anticipated his troubles.

It came with Maglor and his wreaths of wildflowers - though with a glimmer in his eyes, he said that his best present was his company.

Curufin and Celegorm came at the same time, bringing along the sweet fruits of the woods they ruled. Caranthir brought the last water-lilies from lake Helevorn and enough strong liquor to make grown elves properly drunk, while the two youngest brothers both took along finer spirits and branches with delicate white buds. All of this livened up the dark stone and the barren courtyard, making the mood a little lighter even while the flowers were still lying around in bowls of water and the wine had yet to be opened.

But for Maedhros light only truly came with Fingon, last of them all but hurrying to his side. He brought flowers from Hirthlum, but they were few and not as well preserved as the others. He apologized for this and for his lateness as he washed his face and hands and put away his cloak, a flurry of movement borne by the joy of having finally arrived. Then he walked with his cousin through the halls and across the grounds, watching the preparations and Maedhros in equal measure.

”The rest of my family hold their own celebration,” he explained, ”and leaving was _messy,_ but I'd rather spend Tarnin Austa with you.”

”I think you've made a poor choice,” was Maedhros' joking answer, ”but you shall be very welcome to stay.”

Fingon smiled at the comment. ”It's been a while since we last celebrated the Gates of Summer.”

”I don't think I've done it since... Since we came to Beleriand or since my father died. Hard to remember exactly. And I know my brothers haven't either.”

”And it just hasn't been the same for my branch of the family tree.” Fingon paused. ”Why did you want to arrange something again?”

”I don't know,” was Maedhros answer. ”But I'd rather not let the tradition die out. It's been a bit of a mess to get everything set up and making sure everyone could come but-”

“I'm glad you did it.”

They wandered inside to find Maedhros' brothers, who were exchanging stories and small gifts as they discussed preparation for the solstice.  Maedhros found himself standing still in the door for a moment.

He allowed himself to believe that time had not passed at all since Aman. As if this was just another celebration like the times they had done this in Tirion. 

 

* * *

 

It had been a Sunday.

All the other days of the week followed the same pattern of cool mornings and warm afternoons spent with his brothers or teachers. In Aman the days tended to melt together  - only Sundays were not like the other days, and this Sunday was even more unusual as the summer solstice loomed on the horizon.

As always, Maedhros met his brothers for breakfast.

And, as always, very little eating was actually taking place.

Nerdanel was present, but distracted by a mess of letters before her, and although she looked up every once and awhile it was not enough to dissuade her children from anything. Maedhros saw Caranthir fussing over something he was studying – and when he could not understand a subject easily, he'd usually give up in anger sooner or later and let Curufin solve whatever problem he was struggling with. Celegorm tossed Huan scraps when he didn't think anyone was looking to tell him no, and Maglor wrote lyrics with his left hand while using the right to prepare tea. Nights of writing music had given him dark circles under his eyes, but his Telerin tutors appreciated the effort, sending letters of praise to Feanor's desk. The twins were looking, perfectly synchronized, out the window as they waited for a chance to run out into the green.

Maedhros sat at the end of the table. This meant that he was just out of the range of the grapes Amrod and Amras would throw when sufficiently bored, and thus he was quite grateful for his seat. He ate quickly, wolfing down the thin porridge and not even bothering with fruit or milk as he kept looking around.

Usually breakfast would end as they all rose and went to study their choice of theology and linguistics and calligraphy,  soon-forgotten astronomy and history and the art of the hunt- but on Sundays a hand would be laid on Maedhros' shoulder, and he would look up and see his father's face.

"Good morning, Nelyafinwe."

It didn't always take their father's voice - sometimes all that was needed before all seven of the sons of Feanor looked up was his mere presence. Amrod and Amras had made a game out of greeting him loudly and enthusiastically on these mornings, and Maedhros figured it was mostly to try to make him startle. It hardly ever worked. ("If they were dogs, they would've been wagging their tails so hard they'd fall off," Celegorm had once remarked, and then Maglor had elbowed him in the ribs and chastised him for always falling back on dog-metaphors).

Curufin watched Feanor as if trying to comprehend and copy his gestures, his shape, his voice.

The visit was always brief, though, for he was merely there to hear them say "Good morning," and to escort his eldest out of the dining room.

 

Feanor's forge was isolated in another wing of the house. It was always hot in a way that bothered everyone but Feanor himself. Nerdanel joked that it was because he had fire in him too, a little flame instead of a heart, and she said it with a smile that made it clear she never meant it. Yet Maedhros sometimes thought that there was some truth to it, for in the forge, surrounded by smoke and embers, Feanor seemed completely in his element. He could work for days with fervent light in his eyes and spring in his step.

But the children felt like they were interruptions - perhaps except for Curufin who was like his father's shadow. Maedhros walked quickly through it, refraining from touching anything as any metal surface could be burning hot.

Above the forge was Feanor's study.  The room was all dark wood and deep red silk on the walls, situated so close to the forge that Feanor could dash there in the blink of an eye.  This also made the room warmer than the rest of the house, and although Maedhros didn't ever really feel uncomfortable, he always left with sweaty palms.

There was a desk of sturdy wood, the kind that Yavanna cherished - hard and almost impossible to cut, requiring permission from her before it would let itself fall and abide by a woodworker's hands. A tall mirror stood judging in its golden frame along one wall.  There was only one chair, and Feanor would inevitably sit down as he entered the room, leaving Maedhros standing. A moment later Feanor would remember the small stool stowed under the writing desk and pull it out for his son, but the moment where he stood painfully aware that he couldn't see eye to eye with Feanor would always leave Maedhros feeling smaller.

"Shoulders out, back straight, head up."

Maedhros did as instructed. It was second nature to assume the correct pose by now.

Feanor placed an arm on the desk, fingers toying with a thin necklace. Maedhros wondered if it was a present to Nerdanel that had not been deemed good enough to be given just yet, now languishing in a drawer until it could be improved. That was often the case. "I can tell you've been practicing your posture.” Feanor said, looking straight at Maedhros. “Your voice, too. ”

"I try in my room in the evening. At least until the others want something,”

"They're distracting you?"

Maedhros shrugged. "Sometimes. If Tyelko hears me he'll stick his head in the door and tell me I look like a peacock." He smiled at the thought, because his brother always smiled when he said it - wide and open and honest the way only Celegorm could. "I think that's all. No, wait - sometimes the twins barge in, but they excuse themselves. Macalaurë just asks me to be quiet so he can hear his harp."

Feanor's pose softened, his shoulders relaxing. "They just don't understand, Nelyafinwë. There is heritage in your name that is not in theirs."

Maedhros watched the golden links in the chain slip through Feanor's fingers.

"Third of Finwë's line," Feanor said softly. "I know these lessons can seem useless to you, but-"

"They don't."

Feanor raised an eyebrow.

"I want to learn how to act. How to be a ruler. It's... It's what I have."

 _What I have_ , his reflection in the mirror repeated.Celegorm had Oromë and the hunt. Curufin - Curufin was clever and crafty - Maglor had his singing and Maitimo was wellshapen, beautiful, red-haired.

He wanted to be more than what could be easily captured by a square of glass. He could be a prince, a diplomat, a leader.

Feanor seemed to be taken a little aback by the words. He slowly put away the jewelry as he rose from his seat. "That's good. It seemed a bit meaningless to me when I was your age. I could imagine you finding it even more so - after all, if luck is on our side you will need these skills even less than I."

"You never know," Maedhros answered, "I might never be High King, but I like..."

"Knowing you have the potential. That you could shoulder that burden if you needed to."

“Yes.”

“I have come to appreciate that as I have grown older.” Feanor ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly sighing in exasperation. "How did we end up talking about this? I was going to get started on the art of public speaking - probably the subject  _I_  liked most when it was Finwë staring  _me_  down - So let us return to that deceptively difficult task."

Maedhros smiled as he saw his father pacing over to the bookcases and pulling out volumes. And soon Maedhros was standing in front of the mirror, waving his hands about in an attempt to make a speech written hundreds of years ago as moving and important as if it had been written just yesterday. Feanor walked around him, correcting his stance, telling him when his voice wavered.

"Breathe, Nelyafinwë. Look straight at the people you talk to. We must show bravery, fearlessness – appear like a leader should. That might include a certain carelessness-”

"As long as you make it look like ease," Maedhros replied. ”Like you're not even trying.”

"Reading ahead? Or maybe, you're just watching me...?"

Maedhros nodded, and was then pleased to see that the nod earned Feanor's approval - not too enthusiastic, but not to reserved and with the right level of eye contact throughout.  The warmth of the touch lasted only a moment before Feanor was whirling off again: "Now, we  _are_  just focusing on the aesthetics for this time being, but are you interested in debate rhetoric?"

Maedhros adjusted the brooch at his collar. "Sort of. I'd like to have something to use against Curufinwë. I don't know how, but it's like he's skipped all of these lessons yet somehow learned all the tricks."

"But he slouches,” Feanor said, giving Maedhros a conspiratory glance.

Maedhros couldn't suppress a smile. "He does."

"You don't. Next week will be all about the _ethos, pathos_ and _logos_ , then. Actually, I might just find you a book if you want to get started, because I think you've gotten this kind of speech down pretty well. Your voice is a lot more steady now."

"Thank you." Maedhros bowed graciously at the compliment, drawing a thin-lipped smile from Feanor. This, he thought, was something none of the others could get. They might have worlds he could not travel to, but he had his, too. He could not immerse himself in music or run with the wild animals or have all the mountains and woods of Aman mapped out in his mind, but he knew this and he knew his father.

"I'll be right back."

When Feanor left, Maedhros relaxed again. He wandered to Feanor's desk, surveying the books and letters strewn around. Praise from Maglor's telerin teachers. Invitations. Sketches of mechanisms and jewelry. He startled when he heard a sudden noise and briefly thought that it might be the footsteps in the hall. Then he realized that it was the sound of a small rock hitting glass. Darting to the window and looking down to the garden below, he found a familiar pair of blue eyes staring up at him.

Fingon waved excitedly. His hair was done up with silver shining between the dark braids, and he was dressed similarly: blue and steel-gray colors adorning clothes too pretty for sneaking around the Feanorian estate. Carefully, Maedhros undid the clasp of the window. He didn't dare yelling, but he raised his voice slightly.

"Findekáno - what are you doing?"

Fingon cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled - "I'm here to rescue you! Come! Climb down!"

"There's no way I can-"

"Come on, Maitimo!”

"My father will-"

"-Be pleased that you're getting fresh air and cultivating a healthy relationship with your peers!"

Maedhros lowered his voice, wishing he could whisper. "Probably not  _this_  kind of relationship."

"Oh, you're only young once." Fingon bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming. "You're really missing out on the start of the festival because of your dear _atar_? The fair is the best part!"

"We're all going later as a family..." Maedhros protested, but he knew that the battle was lost. He couldn't resist the promise of festivity and freedom and Fingon all at once, and even as he spoke he began considering how he should go about his descent. He praised Eru for not letting organizational skills be part of Feanor's repertoire, as those books he was looking for were probably buried in some pile in the attic.

"I  _am_  your family, technically," Fingon said. "Now try to get your feet down on that windowsill - A little bit to the right..."

Maedhros did as suggested, carefully moving out the window, wondering what he looked like from below."Enjoying the view?"

"Your tunic is practically an ill-fitting dress, Maitimo. There  _is_  no view."

"That's for later, then." As Maedhros balanced on outcropping stones and the windows below, he was glad his face was turned towards the wall. He had apparently surprised Fingon as well as himself.

"Hadn't expected that from you," Fingon teased, "Just focus on the climbing for now. Mandos is such a mood-killer."

And Maedhros let go of the window he had crawled out of and moving another meter closer to the ground. It was hard to hold on to the wall, but at least there was no wind. He thought of Feanor, and that thought gave him the courage to shift his foothold again. Finally Fingon declared that he  _could probably_  jump now, and after a moments hesitation Maedhros took the leap.

 

* * *

 

The mood in the great hall had turned a little tense.

Maedhros raised his voice. ”I invited Fingon too.”

”I can  _see_  that,” Caranthir responded. His voice echoed.

”It's not a problem at all,” Maglor said, turning towards his brothers. ”Is it?”

Curufin shrugged and Celegorm shook his head slowly. The twins answered as one - ”No.”

”But it's typical of you to take Nelyo's side,” Caranthir said.

Maglor looked away, drawing his arms closer to his body. Maedhros saw all the tell tale signs of the shadow that sometimes fell over Maglor – and all the signs of regret in Caranthir's red face as he realized what he had done. ”I don't always do as Nelyo does,” Maglor began. ”Or would have done-”

”Sorry, sorry. I know.” Caranthir ran his fingers through his hair, agitated, before he rose. ”I'm going to see if there's anything I can do. Set up some tables or... something.”

All was silent when his chair scraped against the floor, his footsteps too loud as he left.

Maedhros looked to Fingon. ”Maybe we should do the same. Put up some of the lanterns. Get some fresh air.”

”I just came in, remember? I hardly need fresh air..." Fingon paused, studying Maedhros' eyes. "But I guess I'll come anyway.”

As they walked, Maedhros could already see Celegorm approaching Maglor with some joke in an attempt to lighten the mood again. It felt good to put some distance between them, cool air blowing away lingering traces of worry.

”Maglor is not feeling too good about-” Maedhros began, trying to explain before Fingon cut him off.

”You don't have to tell me if there's anything you don't feel like sharing,” Fingon said. ”It's about while you were... ”

”Captured.” Maedhros felt a dull throb in his shoulder just by saying the word, and he figured Fingon knew when he felt a hand in his as soon as he had said it. ”Canafinwë was king for a while, but none of us had ever thought that would happen. ”

”And he's not satisfied with his decisions.”

”He didn't make many himself, as far as I've heard. They worked together, him and the rest of my brothers. But he's the one who'll take responsibility, and he's the one writing the songs,” Maedhros said. ”He dwells on it. Hindsight lets him see everything crystal clear, and he's not seeing pleasant things, I'm afraid. At least he's doing better now out by his own dominion.”

”Let's not talk about that.”

”Let's not.”

They arrived in the courtyard where the tables were decked and the trees and walls were being decorated. The gathered people were all noldor - traders and refugees and warriors who lived in and around Himring. The air was filled with chatter and the repeated tones of instruments being tuned before the coming performance.

It was a mere shade of Valinor, but it was pleasant all the same.

 

* * *

 

As soon as he had come down, Fingon's arm had been around his shoulder. They left the garden while crouching in the shadows of trees and hiding behind bushes. Maedhros found it quite unnecessary, but it was a nice excuse to crawl closer to Fingon and laugh together as branches got stuck in his hair.

And like that – red-faced, laughing and together - they made it to the fair grounds outside of Tirion. It was a colorful sight, nestled between green hills and lit by fading tree-light in the early afternoon. Torches stood unlit along the long tables. There was already a sizable crowd, and Maedhros loved how he and Fingon could simply disappear into it. Sometimes their hands brushed together as they walked. They tried to ignore it. They could get away with a lot of things as cousins, but he'd wager that holding hands was not one of them.

By the sides of the paths there were colorful tents and, having no reason to hurry, they took their time looking inside them. The fever that had siezed the craftsmen of Tirion up until the festival had simmered down to a certain glow of their eyes as they showed off their projects. There were statues of wood and marble, full-body figures that could almost rival Nerdanel's, although just as many were abstract shapes - wind, sun and emotions made tangible. Other tents contained paintings or calligraphy, and the poets were more than willing to talk at length about their verses and read aloud the words so that every step Maedhros took brought him to another poem. In between the tents there were people gathered on blankets resting and talking with one another. Maedhros wondered idly if he'd find the rest of his family there. Then Fingon led him onwards.

In the grand square the sound became that of harps and harmonizing voices that gave them both pause. Their backs were against a brightly colored tent, and as they watched the musicians in the middle of the square a breeze made the flags come to life and the silver bells in the trees chime softly. The sound was still just a shadow of what would be heard when the sun rose in the morning and the quiet between songs was still nothing like the quiet that would come in the night, but it filled the listeners with equal parts appreciation and anticipation. 

"It's beautiful already," Maedhros said, his low voice barely audible above the noise.

"You too," Fingon replied. "Do you want to..."

"I want to hold you," Maedhros said, "And I bet we could hide away behind that tent.”

Fingon's eyes lit up, and as the crowd grew thicker, Maedhros found himself guided gently along the tent until they were behind it, a thrill of excitement running down his spine. They crouched down where the flowering bushes hid them from view. The music swelled. The grass was soft as Maedhros sat down.

Within seconds Fingon was beside him, close enough that they could lean into each other.

"Do you think anyone can see us?" Maedhros asked.

"I think we're in the clear." Fingon shrugged, but all Maedhros' worry was dispelled when he smiled.

To Maedhros, Fingon's smile had always seemed brighter than the light of the trees on the sky.

Placing one hand on his jaw, Maedhros pulled him into a kiss. It was soft and slow, and when the felt Fingon's hands on his body and the scent of him mixed with the scent of the roasting apples and summer wine, Maedhros felt more at peace than he had for weeks.

When they parted, Fingon giggled. He ran his fingers through Maedhros' hair as if the play of light in the coppery red was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Are you going to stay up and out all night?" Fingon asked.

"I think so." Maedhros answered. "Even Ambarussa are old enough for that."

"Its a bit boring, though. Can't say a word, midnight to dawn."

"With six little brothers you learn to appreciate silence."

The comment made Fingon snicker. "I suppose."

"My father expects me to stay with him and the others for the duration. He says we'll go up and look at Túna from a distance and be back by the time the light shifts."

"I could come with you."

"Maybe," Maedhros agreed, "but I think it's supposed to be just for the eight of us. A family thing. But I promise I'll seek you out first thing in the morning instead."

Fingon sighed theatrically and slid down until his head was in Maedhros lap, black hair sprawled beneath his head, spilling over Maedhros' legs. "Fine."

"We have all the time in the world," Maedhros reminded him. "There's the year after this, and the year after that..."

"Every year," came the reply. Fingon reached up and caressed Maedhros' face.

“Every year. I promise.”

Maedhros wanted nothing more than to sit like that for hours. Every different shade of light would surely only make Fingon's face fairer, and he had so much he wanted them to talk about.

His hopes were shattered as he heard a voice call his name.

"Nelyo?"

Had Maedhros been on his feet, he would have jumped into the air. Now he just startled enough that his knee-jerk reaction made Fingon's head hit the ground. The elf emitted a low curse, but Maedhros hardly even noticed. With a chill running down his spine, he recognized Curufin.

"Curvo?" he asked. "How did  you-"

Curufin raised an eyebrow. "You  _really_ aren't as sneaky as you think you are."

"You're not... surprised?" Fingon said. He rubbed the back of his head as he sat up, and Maedhros absently squeezed his hand in apology.

"I've known for months. Me and Celegorm have a running bet on when you'll come clean." Curufin's smile was thin and brief. "I thought you knew I knew.”

“Curvo-” 

“Just..." Curufin folded his arms. "You could have asked me and I would have made some much better excuses for you than what you usually come up with."

"I don't know if that is a  _good_  thing, exactly-" Maedhros began, but Fingon cut him off.

"Nevermind that, _why_  are you here? We were kind of-" his eyes darted to Maedhros "- In the middle of something."

"I can tell," Curufin answered. "And I just came by to warn you that unless you want your fathers to see that, you might want to consider coming with me. They're both headed this way with the whole entourage. And I think they're looking for you."

"Already?" Fingon sighed.

"Already. You've been gone for longer than you think."

"Then I guess you better keep your promise, Maitimo," Fingon said, and he stood up and brushed what little dirt there was off his clothes. He reached out and pulled Maedhros along, and they both followed a grimacing Curufin away.

It did not take long before an awkward silence settled between the three of them. Maedhros raised his voice in an attempt to banish it-

"Have you made anything to exhibit?"

Curufin shrugged. "I made some jewelry, but we all know it's not really impressive. Makalaurë made a song."

"Makalaurë always makes a song," Maedhros sighed.

"This one is good though. And maybe my jewelry will be good _enough_ , if nothing else."

"Good enough for that young lady you've been courting?" Maedhros asked.

There was a glimmer in Curufin's eye. "I guess we're equal now, aren't we? How did you know?"

Fingon answered, counting on his fingers. "Carnistir, who told Tyelko, who told Irissë, who told me, who told him."

Curufin put his hands in his pockets and exhaled. "Sometimes I don't like this city much at all," he said, but there was laughter in his voice. "Nobody can keep a secret nowadays. Wait, here they come..."

As they turned a corner, Maedhros recognized the silhouette of his father and uncle coming towards them. Both were dressed in bright colors and gleaming jewelry, although none of them outshone their wives. Nerdanel had her husband on her arm. Her eyes glowed like they always did when she was watching people, and Maedhros had no doubt that he would have be seen by her in even the thickest crowd. Following them was Maglor who, harp in hand, was beaming with pride already. The festival had apparently dispelled his fatigue.

Maedhros straightened his back, tightened his jaw, remembered how to stand and breathe as if doing that would help him somehow. He greeted his father, and at first he was given a stern look. Then Feanor's gaze turned towards Fingon, and all three of them knew that Feanor knew who was to blame for Maedhros cutting class.

When Feanor spoke, all he said was "I forgive you, Nelyafinwë."

Maedhros breathed a sigh of relief - not that he had been afraid of any punishment, of which there was none in Feanor's household - his father's disapproval was always enough.

Feanor smiled. "You're only young once. And I do not think it was your idea alone." He turned towards Fingolfin. "I believe one of them is yours, isn't he?"

 

The three branches of Finwë's house spent the evening together at one long table with Feanor seated at one end and Finarfin at the other. Fingolfin's family sat between them, but the laughter and wine flowed freely. And they heard Maglor sing and watched Aredhel arrive and dance in white. Fingon and Maedhros had a few seats between them, but they were almost to captivated by the mood to care. They had, after all, the coming dawn to look forward to.

The artisans unveiled their finest pieces as the sun went down. The lanterns were still dark, and the crystals were void of light for now. Instead the flames of torches illuminated Nerdanel's sculptures.

Close to midnight the artists began packing away.

Bells sounded from everywhere within Tirion. Midnight had come.

The solemn silence was like a ghost wandering through the city. It peered in the windows where even the houses laid quiet. It extinguished the torches and lit up the pale lanterns that burned silvery-white against the sky. Even the Tree-light seemed to have dimmed, leaving everything and everyone in a soft twilight through which the stars alone shone as bright as before.

Out of habit - for they had done this when they were children and had never really stopped - the brothers took each other's hands under the table. Maedhros knew it was Caranthir at his left, smiling as if laughing at himself for participating in the outdated tradition. Maglor had taken Maedhros' right, and his hands were soft.

And they waited for Laurelin.

 

* * *

 

"It's kind of funny," Maedhros remarked. "Back then, we didn't have anything to think about in the night. Nothing to contemplate." His fingers caressed the edge of the lantern he was tying to a tree branch. "No dead to miss. We just sat there and were happy."

"We were spoiled," Fingon added. "And you obviously never learned to tie knots properly."

"You try doing it with one hand."

"Oh. Sorry." Fingon had an expression on his face as if he had just kicked a small animal. "That was insensitive of me."

"I can take it. If you atone by tying this knot for me."

And Fingon did.

“I'm guessing you have a lot on your mind these days,” Maedhros said, inspecting the next lantern.

“To put it mildly.” Fingon grimaced. “Heavens, I was the one who tied your boots every day for months. I don't know why I-”

“Calm down. Don't ruin the festive mood,” Maedhros said. “I wanted you to come so you could relax, not become even more stressed.”

“You seem to have made a miscalculation there.”

“Really? If we just focus on getting these dammed things up one at a time, stop and smell the flowers, think about how there won’t be any politics...”

“One lantern at a time,” Fingon agreed.

They worked their way around the courtyard, and soon an assortment of flowers and lights were hanging from all the trees that Maedhros had let grow in the mud behind the walls.

"It will all have another meaning now," Maedhros said. “And now we have the sunrise to wait for."

"I think it's prettier with the sun."

"Really?"

"Well," Fingon elaborated, "When it's darker at night, the dawn is more impressive."

"Those sound like words of wisdom," Maedhros said jokingly. "I think we're done here."

 

 

* * *

 

During the night, they strayed from the roads and walked with the grass and wildflowers brushing against their legs and hands. Maedhros spread his fingers wide apart to feel the dew-covered leaves. They did not follow Feanor, but walked freely around him. Amrod and Amras strayed the furthest, and Maedhros supposed that the twins had never really needed words to communicate anyway. Huan ran around with them, dutifully obeying the instructions Celegorm had given at dinner. He did not bark even once.

They stopped on a hill overlooking the valley and Túna within it, and Maedhros' breath got caught in his throat. The city was a dark silhouette against the nuances of Telperion's light on the sky. Some of the stars seemed to have fallen into the trees and windows below where they swayed with the wind or blinked when someone passed them by. There was no distractions from the small lights in the dark, from the movement of the ink-black clouds and the gentleness of the breeze. The world was simple but all the more magnificent for it. 

They praised the valar silently. Maedhros knew that Celegorm's thoughts were all prayers, and perhaps Nerdanel's and Feanor's too, but his own... 

Maedhros looked to his family who stood still as statues. Feanor stood beside him, and his hand was warm and heavy on Maedhros' shoulder.  

In his head, he repeated the lessons he had been taught. How to command, how to lead, how to be a king if needed.

 

* * *

 

As the sun went down and the sky above Himring turned dark, the lanterns only made everyone look like ghosts. White shadows, hands the color of bone finding one another.

Maedhros approached Maglor as his harp fell silent, and he took his hand deliberately and slowly. Celegorm remembered too, and Curufin with him. Caranthir still had that look about him, like he felt childish, but he let Amrod come closer anyway. Soon all seven were side by side, and Maedhros looked to the empty end of the table and thought of their parents.

Fingon looked at them over the edge of a goblet. The High King of all Noldor was wearing only a small circlet to reveal his status.

Maedhros closed his eyes.

He figured that all of them - him and his brothers - thought of the same things, even if they did not do it in the same order or for the same reasons. He thought of Feanor – of a blazing funeral pyre, a last touch that weighted on him. Luck had not been on their side at all, and there was a responsibility passed onto him, even if there was no title with it. He thought of the ships, the reflection of the flames in the bay.

He thought of torches in the dark in the first of their great wars, and he thought of Maglor's mourning songs echoing out over the lake Mithrim that had seperated Maedhros from Fingolfin's host.

He tried not to think of it, but he thought of other fire too. Fire deep beneath the ground, burning his skin, warming iron, the heat of nails and blades digging into flesh, and screams so loud and so many that they all seemed to melt into one long cry of anguish, still echoing – and he opened his eyes and the world was bathed in a cool darkness.

Silent.

It was calming. It made it easier to think without letting those thoughts hurt. His right hand was not there, and no prosthetic would ever bring it back, but his left hand was held fast by Maglor.

In the dark he dared to miss Feanor without the anger that usually accompanied thoughts of his father. There was a distance between him and those things now, and he could mourn if he needed to. Even if the daylight dispelled it all again.

And there was no distance between him and Maglor, not when their eyes met.

When he looked at Fingon again, the other elf was looking up at the sky with his hands in his lap, palms upturned and empty. He had taken off his rings, and even the circlet laid in the grass before him.

Maedhros wondered what his lover was thinking.

 

* * *

 

The light shifted in Tirion, and the songs of old were sung. The trumpets sounded and the birds awoke as the light of Laurelin reached across the sky. Vána walked through the hills, and flowers bloomed in her wake. Joyous cries emerged from courtyards and gardens - 

" _Aurë utulië!_ "

While the others marveled at all of this Maedhros rushed across the square, looking for a flash of black hair or blue eyes or silver cloth. They found each other quickly, and the first word Maedhros said that day was Fingon's name.

 

* * *

 

The sun rose.

The sun – Maedhros could not help comparing it to Laurelin. It was at once fairer and more fragile. He had sat with his brothers and wandered between the trees in the dark, thinking of things he did not usually dwell on, and now he left those shadows behind. Sunlight warmed his back as he turned to Fingon, the first words of the day still curiously absent - he had no idea what to say. So he simply said Fingon's name and in reply, Fingon took his hand and let their arms swing between them.  _Like they were children_ , Maedhros thought.

It took a long time before Fingon spoke.

”Did you pray?” 

Maedhros fell short of an answer. 

“...I can see why this is something you'd want to keep,” Fingon said. ”It's a good tradition.”

”It is.”

”Do you remember what else is a good tradition?”

Maedhros smiled and leaned in, quickly kissing Fingon on the lips when he thought nobody was looking. As brief was it was, Maedhros felt warmth spread throughout his body – too pleasant for it to be caused by the sun alone.

”I think I have a lot of missed years to make up for,” he said quietly. Fingon smiled and squeezed his hand, and Maedhros couldn't tell if it was the light or if he was blushing-

”Just please save it for when you're not right in front of us all,” Curufin asked, his voice coming from right behind Maedhros' ear.

”By all that is holy, Curvo, stop doing that!”

”If you stop  _doing_  our cousin.” Curufin paused to let Maedhros and Fingon exchange glances before continuing.  ”...Just kidding, of course. It's good to see some things don't change.”

Fingon smiled and leant in again. 

Around them Maedhros' brothers stood at ease, and Amrod and Amras were the first to walk to the gates and get them open. They stepped into the knee-high grass, the purple flowers, never having let go of each other's hands. Maedhros knew them well enough to know that they wanted to run and feel the sun on their skin, rekindling some memory of Aman, and Celegorm sauntered slowly after them. 

Maedhros himself was content to stand in the door with Fingon at his side, close enough that he could hear his lover hum softly as they watched the sky turn gold.


End file.
